


Five More Proposals and a Shotgun Wedding

by kitsunerei88



Series: Revolutionary Arc Plus Extras [16]
Category: Revolutionary Arc - kitsunerei88
Genre: 5+1 Things, F/M, Fluff, Marriage Proposal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-11
Updated: 2021-02-11
Packaged: 2021-03-18 02:35:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,713
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29361150
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kitsunerei88/pseuds/kitsunerei88
Summary: The first two proposals… well, they were covered elsewhere, and no one really needs to discuss them, do they? We know that Aldon proposed for the first time at the Ministry Unity Ball, before the end of the war; we saw Francesca's reaction to that. We know he both did and didn't propose at the end of the war, and that Francesca said, "not now." But how many tries does it eventually take him?Let's find out.
Relationships: Aldon Rosier/Francesca Lam
Series: Revolutionary Arc Plus Extras [16]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1722145
Comments: 1
Kudos: 13





	Five More Proposals and a Shotgun Wedding

**_I. The Last-Ditch Effort_ **

Francesca had given him a roadmap to her heart. "Try again after I have a driver's licence," she had said. "And a four-year college degree, and the first publicly available ACD on the market." It was a checklist, one-two-three, and Aldon had been committed to following it. According to Neal, the first wouldn't take very long, no more than a year or two; the second would be four years, and the third, well, Aldon would work on that. They could have it out in a handful of years, and everything would work out.

Aldon hadn't counted on the details.

First, Francesca seemed to be making no move to get a driver's licence. It would only take her about a year to do, maybe two, but she hadn't even started. He had tried to ask her about it, once or twice, only to receive a confused look in response.

"Why would I need a driver's licence here, Aldon?" she had asked, tilting her head up at him. "You have no roads to Rosier Place, so where would I drive a car? And anyway, everything is so well-connected in England—it's easy enough for me to take the Portkey Hub to Heathrow and get on the trains."

"Well, er—" Aldon had spluttered, but he hadn't had a good explanation to offer in reply.

Somehow, he had also never thought through the second of her criteria, a four-year college degree. He had somehow always assumed that she would be doing this _degree_ from the security of Rosier Place—she had done her last two years of schooling for AIM from Rosier Place by correspondence, so was there any reason why she couldn't do further education in the same way? Indeed, caught up in the nitpicky negotiations of nation-building while running the Rosier Investment Trust, he had rather ignored all the additional things that Francesca was doing.

Like going into London in the autumn to write something called her _SAT_ s. Like perusing the brightly coloured pamphlets emblazoned with words like _Stanford_ and _Columbia_ and _McGill_. Like the long essays she had written on her laptop in their electronics-secured room in the library, late into the night, and then the letters that came flying to her every week by owl from her parents.

He had, in fact, completely missed that Francesca would be _moving back to North America_ for said four-year college degree.

The moment he worked it out was when she had whittled down the pile of brightly coloured magazines to only a handful. _Stanford_ was still there, sitting on top of a neat pile, which when Aldon picked it up included _Carnegie Mellon_ , _McGill_ and _Columbia_. A blue pamphlet with the words _University of Toronto_ was in her hands, and she was studying it with an intent expression on her face.

"Er, Francesca—" he said, leafing through the booklets in his hands. "All of these schools—Stanford is in California."

"Yes, but I don't think I'm going there anyway," she replied, not looking up from her booklet. "I got in because Dad teaches there, and in the engineering department word would get around. I'd also have to move back home, and I don't really want to, as much as I love my parents…"

Aldon shuffled to the next booklet in the pile. "And Carnegie Mellon is in… Pittsburgh? Where is Pittsburgh?"

"Pennsylvania."

"And where is that?"

Francesca finally looked up from her booklet. "Um, the east coast of the United States? But I don't think I'm going there, either—the tuition is really high, and it's in Pittsburgh. I don't want to live in Pittsburgh."

Aldon paused, picking his words carefully as he flicked through the last two booklets—Columbia was in New York City, and McGill in Montreal, and the University of Toronto was no doubt in Toronto. He fervently wished it wasn't, or perhaps that there was a small village in England named "Toronto" that he had simply never noticed.

"None of these schools are in England," he said finally, setting the pile back down onto the low-lying coffee table. "Didn't you apply to schools in England?"

"I did, but I was rejected," Francesca replied offhandedly, looking back at her booklet. "The homeschooled background—it was hard to get my qualifications together, no matter what my SAT scores said. I really wanted Caltech, or MIT, but..."

She sighed, put down the blue University of Toronto booklet, and picked up the red McGill booklet instead.

"But-" Aldon hesitated. "Where will you live?"

"All the big schools have student residences." Francesca put the booklet back down, frowning up at him in concern. "What is this about, Aldon?"

"I simply thought-" Aldon started, then he cleared his throat. "I thought you'd be staying here."

"If I'd been accepted to Oxford or Cambridge, maybe." Francesca shrugged. "But didn't we talk about this? We need a more thorough understanding of No-Maj physics and engineering to keep pushing the ACD forward, and I'm the only one with enough of a No-Maj science background to do it."

"Yes, but..." Aldon cut himself off. The four-year degree had always been in her plans, right from the beginning, and he didn't feel like there was anything he could say in response. "I'd just hoped you'd stay here."

Francesca smiled, standing up and pulling him into a gentle kiss. "It's only four years, Aldon," she reminded him. "And I'll be back every summer to work on the ACD, and you can visit me wherever I go, and it'll be fine."

"Four years," he echoed, with a weak smile of his own. Four years seemed like a lifetime.

He could have gotten used to the idea, he thought—if it weren't for Archie. And John. And even Neal, whom Aldon could often count on for support, apparently didn't see any problem whatsoever with Francesca returning to America for schooling.

He found Archie in one of his parlours with Francesca after a political organization meeting one day, looking through the brightly coloured pamphlets with wide eyes.

"What do you think?" he overheard Francesca asking anxiously, as he paused in the corridor. "I mean, Columbia and Stanford have the best reputations, but my _dad_ is at Stanford, and Columbia—well, John thinks it's an easy choice since it's in New York, but I almost want something different, you know? Further away. The other schools are good, but I haven't really had a chance to visit any of them."

Archie shrugged helplessly. "Chess, everything I know about No-Maj college comes from movies, which mean as far as I'm concerned, they're full of first love and parties where you wear a toga and boys winning you over by standing outside your window with a boombox playing your song. Where do you find that?"

Francesca looked down at the books with a frown. "All of them, I'm sure," she said slowly. "But that's not—not really what I'm looking for…"

"Then I'm sure they're all fine. You'll find a place wherever you go, Chess." Archie grinned. "Hey, if you go to one of the toga parties, tell me all about them, okay? I hear they're _grand_."

Francesca snorted. "I doubt I would go to a frat or sorority party. Too much alcohol, and loud people and music. It's not really—not really my scene, Archie. How would I even be invited?"

"Make eyes at a frat boy," Archie suggested, his grey eyes mischievous. "Come on, Chess, it's a quintessential college experience! You have to go, if only to tell me about it!"

Aldon had heard enough, and he had other work to do, so he silently slipped away to his study.

The conversations he overheard over Chess' communication orb were even more frustrating.

"Obviously Columbia is the best option, since it's in New York—you could stay with us," John voice came through loud and clear. "Though I suppose with McGill, you could stay with the Queenscoves—"

"Why do I need to stay with anyone, John?" Francesca rolled her eyes, though only Aldon could see it. "I'll stay in residence, just like all the other first-years. I'll—it'll be good for meeting people, getting involved in campus life, and so on. Not that I'll have a lot of time, between school and my own research… Oh, I suppose I'll have to account for that. I'll ask for a private room in residence."

"Hmm." John sounded as if he was considering it. "You have a point. Meeting people would be good, and four years is a long time. Maybe you'll meet someone that'll knock you off your thing with Aldon, that would be good—"

"John!" Francesca cried out, flushing with embarrassment as her eyes skittered to meet Aldon's. "Aldon just walked in—and we've talked about this, John, leave Aldon alone."

John only laughed, and let Francesca change the subject.

Still, Aldon held his tongue. Perhaps their nights were a little warmer than they had been before, and became more so after she accepted one of her many offers—this one for McGill in Montreal, after what Aldon considered to be a sustained campaign by Neal waxing on at length about his hometown. Winters that came straight from a romantic fairy tale, filled with old buildings crowned with snow and icicles and draped in French history; a campus set right in the heart of L'Île-de-Montréal, walking distance to a thousand restaurants that, to hear Neal describe them, were better than anywhere else in the world.

Smoked meat, bagels, and poutine. The first two Aldon could get perfectly well if he just asked the house-elves—the last one sounded disgusting.

"You don't speak French," Aldon had tried saying, not that it made much difference which city Francesca would be in when she was an ocean away.

"Neal says I don't need to," she had replied with a beaming smile. "The school is English, and everyone in Montreal is bilingual. I'll be fine, Aldon."

He had grumbled somewhat about that, but when she crawled into his lap and kissed him, he let it go. For that night, at least.

He let it go for the next night, too. And the next after that, and every night until the night before Francesca would be _leaving,_ first for a week home with her parents before she got back on an aeroplane to fly to Montreal. He had been talked into setting up a farewell party for her, which he hadn't really wanted to do because a farewell party sounded so utterly permanent. And between Archie talking about the great parties she would go to, Neal pointedly noting that it was perfectly legal for Francesca to drink in Quebec, and John's haunting comment about the plethora of new men that that she would meet…

It was a bad idea. He knew it was a bad idea, but he had to do something. He wanted—no, he needed—to have a connection that was _permanent_ , so that she wouldn't forget when she was away, and it was that thought and not a hint of alcohol that he Summoned the ring box once again and pulled her away from her own festivities.

"What is it?" she asked, flushed and red-faced. Neal had gotten a glass of something-or-other in her hand, telling her that he'd rather that she be drunk for the first time here where he could keep an eye on her and learn her limits than at a wild McGill party. It seemed that Francesca's alcohol limits were even lower than Aldon's. "Aldon?"

The blast of cool air as he pulled her outside strengthened him. It was dark, the sun long since set and the moon hanging bright in the sky, and the breeze smelled of promise.

He didn't waste time.

"Marry me," he said, dropping to one knee and offering the ring, the ring that he knew very well that she adored. She had as good as said so the last time he had tried, a little more than a year ago. "Please."

Francesca blinked, her eyes going wide, then her lips trembled into a smile. "Oh, Aldon."

"That's not a yes." Aldon kept holding the box out, waiting for an answer.

"It's not meant to be a yes." Francesca sighed, closing the box, and pushed it back into his hands. Despite her words, her hands were warm on his, and her tone was caught somewhere between amused and despairing. "We did long-distance before, didn't we? We're still going to talk all the time. I'm still working on the ACD project, and I'll be back every summer. And you can come visit me whenever you can. It will work out."

"I'd rather make it work out now," Aldon replied stubbornly, even if he pocketed the ring box. "Just—everything Archie and John and Neal say—the parties, the French men—"

Francesca laughed. "You know they're teasing you, right? And aren't you part French?"

Aldon fell silent. He had not, in fact, realized that they were teasing him, and he was only French in the broadest sense. He spoke the language, but the Rosiers had been English for centuries.

Francesca sighed again and tugged him upright. "We'll be fine, Aldon. I'll call your comm orb every night—eleven British time, when we used to have our meetings. And we'll have visits, and you'll fly over to come to formal school events with me, and everything will be all right. All right?"

It wasn't all right, not in his books, but he didn't see any other option. He let Francesca soothe him with another warm, alcohol-tasting kiss instead.

**_II. The Spontaneous Attempt_ **

Two years passed faster than Aldon had expected. It would be a lie to say that he hadn't spent the first few months in a foul mood, but there was always work to do—from trying to find a way to help Pansy get back on her feet, to sitting on political matters in the Wizengamot, to running the Rosier Investment Trust, his days were long and full of distraction. He hadn't left Blake & Associates or the ACD project entirely, but someone had to manage the business matters and Christie didn't have much of a head for it. They had long since hired another magical theorist, someone Christie had had recommended to her through her international contacts.

But two years was exactly as long as Aldon needed to see Pansy's new bakery in Diagon Alley turn a profit, rearrange the Rosier Investment Trust to decrease the need for his constant involvement, and to convince Neal to take his Wizengamot proxy.

"So you can go lark about in my hometown for two years while I'm stuck here?" Neal had asked with a frown, but the mischievous light in his eyes had said that he would agree. "You'll owe me for this, Aldon."

"I'll put a stasis spell on poutine and send it back for you," Aldon had replied with an eyeroll. A bad habit that he had collected from one of Archie, Francesca, John, or Neal. "And technically, I'll also be reading my Mastery of Magical Theory at the Institute for Magical Theory nearby in New York State. It's within my Apparation distance."

He had made sure of that, of course. He hadn't had a lot of choices for his mastery, but he had enough, and the Institute for Magical Theory was conveniently close. That, more than anything, had elevated it to the top of the rankings. He and Francesca had made it two years at a distance, but Aldon was not keen on another two more.

From the names Francesca had mentioned, engineering was full of men—or perhaps it was simply that Francesca drew them. Francesca had shown no interest in any of them, going so far as to take Graeme Queenscove to the engineering formal in her first year, then John in her second year rather than a date, but Aldon didn't like it.

He also didn't like her student housing when he arrived. A tiny, cramped flat in the middle of a cluster of crowded buildings and narrow streets, and she was sharing with two roommates—one of them male. But she moved in with him without any real argument, and while he had a sneaking suspicion that most of Francesca's classmates looked askance at him, he could not say he particularly cared.

It was the holidays when Francesca decided that she wanted a romantic vacation—one that included an isolated log cabin in the woods crusted with snow, a roaring fireplace, and too much wool and plaid. Finding an appropriate cabin had taken long enough, a job only Aldon could do since most people outside Montreal spoke only French, but eventually he found one that seemed to meet Francesca's exacting demands an hour north of St. Eustache. So, the day after her exams finished, Francesca rented a car and they drove north with the back of the car filled with a week's worth of food and wine. Francesca had explicitly forbidden any of Aldon's house-elves to come along, much to their disappointment.

There was nothing in the cabin. There was the requested fireplace, along with a well-stocked pile of firewood and an ugly brown sofa which Aldon didn't trust to be clean, and thick stacks of both wool and plaid blankets. The bathroom was clean, but hauntingly stocked with a bottle of blue liquid labelled _liquide de refroidissement antigel_ and detailed instructions to pour it down the drain every time they used the bathtub, which Aldon thought made it only a small step up from an outhouse. The kitchen was miniscule and filled with appliances that Aldon didn't recognize and which he hoped Francesca knew how to use, and a tiny wooden table for two sat in one corner. Tucked in the back of the cabin and heated with its own wood stove was the bedroom, featuring a bed probably two-thirds the size of Aldon's at home. But there was no computer, no internet connection, and the television antennae caught only two channels, both of them French.

Francesca thought it was perfect.

They were useless as cooks, both of them. If it weren't for their magic, they probably would have burnt down the cabin. Instead, Aldon built perfect fires, and they toasted bread and sausages in the fireplace and made do with pasta and salads and sandwiches. They spent their time reading, or talking, or occasionally Aldon would watch the sad television left for them, but truth be told…

They spent most of that vacation in bed.

It was after a mid-afternoon's pleasure that Francesca cuddled up close to him, and he wrapped one arm around her bare back. He was tired, the creeping satisfaction of post-coital bliss sweeping over him, and the words slipped out without his conscious thought.

"We should get married," he murmured softly, his other hand tugging the blankets over to cover them. "Marry me."

He felt Francesca freeze, but he didn't react—instead, he only kept his arm around her, almost as if he wasn't aware of what he had said. It was long minutes before she responded.

"Oh, Aldon," she murmured into his chest. "We have fun, don't we? We're young—let's just enjoy what we have, instead of rushing things. I want to enjoy what we have right now."

Aldon sighed, but Francesca's hand started wandering lower, so he let it go.

**_III. The Planned Proposal_ **

Graduation was a milestone.

It was spring of 2002, and Aldon had heard that some few of Francesca's classmates were getting engaged. Her friend Isaac, the only other wizard in the engineering program and Francesca's closest friend in Montreal, even said that it wasn't unusual for Muggles to get engaged around graduation. Graeme Queenscove, Neal's older brother, told him that it was a bad idea and not to do it, but then Graeme Queenscove seemed to be allergic to all forms of commitment, so Aldon didn't take his comments to heart.

It was going to be a perfect proposal—one that was firmly rooted in Muggle traditions, for which Aldon had watched too many Muggle movies to study. He had a place on the McGill campus already picked out, with a beautiful view to the front gates, and of course he'd brought the ring across the Atlantic with him.

It felt right. Everything felt right after four years abroad. Francesca, an engineering degree under her belt, was not the same person as she had been when she left England only a year after the war, just as the Aldon who would be returning to England to resume his role at the head of the Rosier Investment Trust and in the Wizengamot was considerably more worldly than he had been only two years ago. He had lived abroad now, in a different wizarding and Muggle society, and that experience had made him rather different than he used to be.

An engagement now would be a nice match to the change. He and Francesca would both be heading back to England after her graduation—that had already been decided. He had turned in his notice to their landlord, most of their belongings had been packed and shrunk with Weightlessness Charms spread over everything and sent back to Rosier Place. Francesca hadn't even questioned whether she would be staying at Rosier Place, simply taking it as a given that she would go wherever Aldon would go, and if that wasn't a sign, then the fact that she had recently gotten addicted to reality television programs about weddings certainly was.

It would be perfect. Everything was going to be perfect, and they could look forward to a spring wedding by this time next year.

The day of her graduation was bright and warm, but a cooling breeze kept them all from baking in the sun. Her parents had flown in from San Francisco two nights ago, and it was obvious that even if Aldon had never met them, Francesca had spoken or written quite a lot about him over the past six years. Aldon had gone ahead and gotten Francesca's father's approval—or, rather, his non-opposition since the man seemed entirely puzzled by the question—and he was secure that all would go well. It had been six years, after all, and Francesca obviously had no plans on leaving him. They might as well formalize it.

And yet—

Francesca started grimacing even before Aldon was fully on one knee, one hand coming up to cover her face. Aldon didn't stop—he was too far into his proposal to stop, and they had drawn a crowd, and he wouldn't stop. He couldn't.

"Francesca," he murmured, keeping his voice low enough that the crowd couldn't hear exactly what he was saying. "We've been together for so long, through so many changes—both within ourselves and in the world around us. You always said that we were too young, and that you needed a four-year degree before you could even consider getting married, but now that you have that degree I hope that you'll consider my proposal. I feel the same way now as I did at eighteen, and—please. Marry me, Francesca, and make me the happiest man in the world."

"Oh, Aldon." Francesca sighed, and Aldon could spot the tears in her eyes as she stepped forward, hiding their hands as best as she could with her billowing black graduation robes. She shut his ring box and pushed it back in to his hands. "Not now."

"But—" Aldon tried. "We've graduated—you're moving back to England with me—"

"I like being with you," Francesca replied. "I like you, but we've just graduated. Let's live a bit first, Aldon, before settling down. Let's go back to England, and we'll work and travel and have fun like we always talked about, okay?"

"Being married won't stop us from working, or travelling, or having fun," Aldon pointed out stubbornly. "And what about your wedding shows? What is that about, then?"

"Say Yes to the Dress?" Francesca laughed slightly. "I just like pretty dresses! It doesn't mean I want one right now. I don't want to settle down right now, Aldon. Please—leave it alone. Just leave it alone, for another few years. Please."

There was a plaintive note in her voice, and a look around showed that the crowd was staring avidly. Aldon sighed, rising to his feet, and flashed a wry smile to the people surrounding them as he wrapped her in his arms. "All right, Francesca. Whatever you wish."

**_IV. The Unexpected Refusal_ **

"Mom, Aldon and I are really very busy…" Aldon overheard Francesca saying into her phone, pacing across the floor. Mobile phones did, as it turned out, work at Rosier Place—they only needed to be secured to prevent magical interference, and a few years on, Blake & Associates had refined the exact process used to block magical interference from electronic devices to a light, easy to apply polymer. "Tell cousin Lily our apologies, but we can't possibly make it to Hong Kong for her wedding on that kind of notice."

Aldon could hear a squawking from the other side, too indistinct for him to even recognize the language. It could be either English or Cantonese, though it was more natural for Francesca to reply in English. Francesca winced. "Yes—Mom, I understand it's four months away, but we have so much to do and no time for a vacation—"

Aldon raised an eyebrow. While it was true that they were busy, four months was certainly far enough in advance that they could work in time for a family event. He knew Christie would give Francesca the time off—Francesca hadn't had a real vacation in more than a year—and they had talked often enough about taking a week to travel somewhere. And four months away was ideal, since the Wizengamot didn't sit over the summer.

He walked over and plucked the phone out of her hand. "We can make it," he said brusquely. "When's the date?"

"Ah, Aldon," Grace Cheung replied, her voice immediately shifting to pleased satisfaction. "It's the first weekend of August—Francesca's younger cousin, Lily, is getting married. You know how things slow down in the summer, it's a good time for a vacation."

"Absolutely," Aldon agreed, mentally making a note of the date. "I'll mark it off and we'll arrange our schedules to be there."

"Good! We'll look forward to seeing you there, then," Francesca's mother chirped. "Give my best to Francesca!"

The connection went dead, and Aldon handed Francesca her phone back. She was scowling at him, an expression that he had always found cute, even if he was simultaneously unnerved or offset by it.

"Why did you do that, Aldon?" she demanded, tossing her mobile onto the sofa behind her. "Do you have any idea what you're in for, now?"

Aldon shrugged. "You always wanted to take me to Hong Kong—it's come up at least four times now. We've also been talking about taking a vacation somewhere soon. This is a good time to do it, and we can go to your cousin's wedding too."

Francesca shook her head, crossing her arms over her chest. "There were reasons I didn't want to go, Aldon. Chinese weddings are…" She paused, looking away.

"Are?"

She shook her head. "You'll see. And August in Hong Kong will be the death of you."

She didn't lie. Hong Kong in early August was absolutely sweltering, the humidity a wet pillow that smacked him in the face every time he walked outside. The temperatures were a clear ten degrees warmer in Hong Kong than they were in Kent, but it felt far warmer with the humidity in the air. The hotel that the wedding was in was, thankfully, climate-controlled, as were most of the indoor spaces. He switched out most of his clothing for lighter material that allowed in a breeze, though he couldn't bring himself to switch to the t-shirts and shorts that many other tourists favoured.

During the first few days after they arrived, Francesca did take him to see the sights. From Victoria Peak to the night markets, from Ocean Park to the newly installed Hong Kong Disneyland, and fueled by a thousand street snacks that she paused everywhere to buy, she ran him ragged. The day of the wedding, however, they went back to the hotel early, barely after noon, for Francesca to soak in the spa and to get ready.

Aldon was no stranger to the hours it took to get ready—he and Francesca had done formal events before—but this was a stretch even for him. Nearly five hours, when he knew it wouldn't take more than three for either of them to get ready. And yet, it took Francesca nearly until the time they had to go downstairs to get ready. Her hair had taken far longer to put into an updo than it normally did, her makeup was heavier than Aldon had seen it before, and he suspected she had stuffed a few glamour spells into her dress. She looked absolutely stunning, climbing into impressive three-inch heels, but her perfect ruby-red lips were pressed small in determination.

"Let's get this over with," she murmured, swinging a new handbag over her shoulder, the price of which had made even Aldon raise an eyebrow. Not that they couldn't afford it, and Francesca had never been cheap, but she normally did have a number in mind that she considered too much no matter what Aldon said.

He offered her his arm, and they rode down the elevators together to the main reception room.

The room was glaring in red and gold, the head table dominated on one side by a sculpture of a golden dragon and on the other by a phoenix. The reception line wasn't very long, and Francesca introduced him around with a soft, almost perfunctory air, though her grip on his arm was tight. She was out of her depth—in England, Aldon normally took the lead at any formal events, but she could not fall behind him as a shield here.

Everyone welcomed her with bright smiles and kind words, though his gift told Aldon that neither were fully sincere. Indeed, there was an edge humming in the air, almost there but gone before he could fully assess it. The wedding itself was delightful, and it wasn't until Aldon sat down at the reception table beside her family that he was able to place exactly what it was that made Francesca so tense.

"You're so lucky that Albert and Henry decided to settle so close to home," her mother said to her uncle, over the second course of seafood. "My Francesca, now, moved out practically when she was eleven! She's always working, always travelling, and I barely see her!"

Over the fifth course, to her sister: "Oh, it must be so nice to have grandchildren so young! Francesca spent so long on her studies, and now with her work, she has no time for marriage and children."

Aldon opened his mouth to interrupt, protesting that even if they weren't yet married, he was indeed in a serious relationship with Francesca and that they both had discussed children in the future, but Francesca's hand was a vice on his wrist.

"I'd like a drink," Francesca said clearly, pulling him up from the banquet table with him. "Aldon, won't you indulge me?"

At the bar, she promptly ordered herself a shot of vodka, and downed it before ordering another.

"Er, Francesca…" Aldon started, knowing very well that she was drinking to get drunk. Her tolerance was one drink on a good day, and she knew it—the fact that she was willingly doing shots said she planned on being very drunk, very quickly. Aldon didn't drink anymore, having long since learned that no amount of drink was a safe amount for him. He never stopped at just one, and given the opportunity would always try for the full bottle.

"It's how my mother praises me," Francesca said in reply. "She's showing off. In our culture, she can't praise me openly, so she has to hide how happy she is with my life choices by making them sound awful. She's doing it because this is her family and they've never appreciated her own choices—she didn't marry early enough, she focused too much on her career, all of that. But I'm a genius, and she and my dad are at the height of their professions, and we're the wealthiest in her family. She's showing off by highlighting my education and profession. She'll get on my weight next, and if you're lucky, she'll get on you too." Francesca paused to down the second shot of vodka, coughing slightly as it went down. "My cousin Lily beggared herself to pay for this reception."

"But you don't like it," Aldon observed, leaning on the counter.

"I don't have to like it. It's culture, and maybe I'm too Westernized to appreciate it." Francesca sucked in a deep breath. "Time to go back. Five more courses to go."

"Five?"

"And they leave the noodles and rice for the end, so I hope you're still hungry."

Back at the banquet table, Aldon heard a different undercurrent to her mother's comments. He noted that her mother was carrying a handbag and wearing jewelry every bit as obviously expensive as Francesca's and probably somewhat outside her usual, that the conversation that she engaged him on generally related to business management that showed him in the light of a young business leader of tomorrow. Whatever else she said, she was showing their status in a way that couldn't be denied.

It was a game that Aldon would have deeply enjoyed at any other time. He would be very good at this game, and while he resisted pointing out that he was a noble with a hereditary seat in the Wizengamot, he couldn't help but be drawn into discussions about his business portfolio, his opinions on key industries of growth in the new millennium, and his plans for expansion of the Rosier Investment Trust. While he couldn't get into specifics, all the specifics being magical in nature, he was indeed expanding the Muggle presence of his family company—with the rise of the internet, it was safest for the Rosier Investment Trust to have a strong Muggle-facing front, if only so that if anyone searched for them they would actually find a presence that made sense. More money didn't hurt either. Business was business, whether magical or Muggle, and the ACD project needed the funds.

He could only watch as Francesca fell more silent and drunk, his subtle hints that perhaps she should lay off met only with a glare and an insistent reach for another drink. The most he had been able to do was to convince her to switch to cocktails instead, which at least forced her to slow down. A few bowls of noodles and rice would also help, but when he helped her back to their room later that night, he had no doubt that she was very, very intoxicated.

He sat her down on the comfortable sofa left in the room, conjured her a glass of water, and helped her sip it. She drank without comment, her eyes fixed firmly on the glass.

"Maybe we should get married," she ventured finally, without looking up. "It's been—what, seven and a half years? We should get married."

Aldon blinked. On one hand, he had spent at least the last three years wanting nothing more—at this point, so many years down the line, even he saw his first three proposals as being a little premature. Had he even known Francesca at eighteen, or at twenty, or even at twenty-one? But his proposal at twenty-four had been entirely serious, and he felt no different at twenty-six.

But he didn't want it to happen like this.

"You're drunk, Francesca," he said finally, gesturing to her glass of water. "Finish your water, and we'll go to bed. If you still feel that way in the morning, then we'll talk."

Francesca didn't respond, and in the morning, she didn't bring it up again.

**_V. The Proposal at the End of the Roadmap_ **

The first publicly available ACD was released on the market on April 18, 2006, after a long marketing campaign that had started years ago. Some few people—Blake & Associates partners, close family friends, and old war allies—had access to the earliest beta-test versions, and they had brought the device into public prominence over many years. Jessa Queenscove had, in her own Triwizard Tournament in 1999, used an ACD to devastating effect in taking the coveted interschool trophy home to Ilvermorny School of Witchcraft and Wizardry; John had brought his onto the international free-duelling stage. Many Aurors, especially in the former Wizarding Britain, carried them as a safety precaution, while Archie and Hermione had begun exploring the use of ACDs for stasis spells in complex Healing. While some few older people disparaged the device, calling it a reduction of magic to the lowest common denominator, it didn't stop thousands of witches and wizards from lining up at the specialized shops popping up across every nation the newly restructured Rosier Blake Lam Industries had a presence to buy them.

That month, Francesca was featured on the cover of _The New York Ghost_ and about six other publications in Wizarding America, Canada, and Ireland; her interviews were splashed throughout the world of magical theory and the newly developing field of magical-Muggle engineering. Aldon was profiled in _Bridge_ , _La Presse Magique,_ and seven other business-focused magazines across Europe and America; the society features, including _The Wizarding Insider_ and _Witch Weekly_ , simply wanted them both.

It was six weeks of travel. Six weeks of photographs, six weeks of interviews and press conferences and gala events. They were the power couple package, Francesca the genius inventor and Aldon the young business visionary, and everyone wanted a piece of them. Francesca gloried in it, more than a decade of work coming to fruition, and Aldon could only watch the stock prices for Rosier Blake Lam Industries rise with a heady sense of satisfaction.

There was only one thing that could make it better.

They had made it home to Rosier Place, exhausted but still flushed with success. Francesca had managed to kick off her heels, which were promptly whisked away alongside their bags by an industrious house-elf. Aldon touched the box in his pocket absently, feeling a thrill of anticipation as she collapsed with a heavy sigh on the sofa in their private rooms.

They were finally there. It had been nearly nine years in coming, but Francesca had it all: the driver's licence, the four year college degree, the first publicly available ACD. They had worked, and they had travelled, and he had no doubt they would continue to do those things. It was time, and no one, absolutely no one, could say they were too young.

Aldon had just turned twenty-nine, and Francesca twenty-six. Neal had married two years ago, and already had a toddler to show for it; nearly everyone Aldon had known from his school days had married. Archie and Hermione had married a year or so ago, though they had no children as of yet, and by now even John had eloped with his boyfriend. It was time.

He sat down on the sofa beside her, turning to look at her and bringing the box out. Francesca's eyes widened, the generally pleased and satisfied look on her face disappearing in an instant.

"Francesca," Aldon murmured, flicking the box open with a practiced flick of his thumb. It was the same ring as it had been nine years ago, the one that Francesca had already said she liked, and if Aldon was sure of anything, he knew that this was the ring. "Nine years ago, when we were too young and fighting a war, I asked you to marry me. You said, right after we won, that you needed three things: a driver's licence, a four-year college degree, and the first publicly available ACD on the market. You got your driver's licence in 1999, then your college degree in 2002. It took until this year for us to release the ACD to the public but now that you have everything—will you marry me?"

Francesca's face had taken on a distinctly panicked look. "I—but—"

Aldon raised an eyebrow. "We're not too young anymore, Francesca, and we've been together for more than a decade by now. Most of your own friends are married. What is it?"

"I just—" Francesca looked away. "I'm really tired. Do we have to do this now?"

"Is it something about me?" The words came out slowly. Aldon didn't stutter, any tendency towards the habit having been firmly ironed out of him as a child, so any time he was nervous about answer, the pace of his speech simply slowed and became more enunciated.

"No!" Francesca's face flew to him, flushing red and upset. "No, not at all, Aldon, it's—it's me. I just—I don't feel ready. I never felt ready. I thought I'd just know one day, when the right time was, and I don't—I don't know. And you're the Lord Rosier, and I guess marrying you would make me the Lady Rosier, and what—what does that mean?"

"It means nothing you don't want it to mean." Aldon reached for her hand. "The nobility—after the revolution, too much has changed. In truth, you've been playing the role of the Lady Rosier for years."

"Have I?" Francesca's hand was warm, but a little sweaty. "I don't—I didn't know. I just thought—I thought I would just know when it was time, and I'd feel ready and everything would fall into place and it would feel like magic. And it doesn't. It just feels embarrassing and wrong and… I'm not ready for this, Aldon. I love you, but I'm not ready for this."

Aldon sighed, hearing the tears in her voice before she started, so he set the ring aside and pulled her close. He couldn't force it, nor did he want to force anything. He tried to keep his voice light, rather than hurt or angry or frustrated. "Well, when you feel ready—do let me know, won't you?"

Francesca sniffled, and then she nodded into his shirt.

**_And then: A Shotgun Wedding_ **

Francesca was sick.

At first, Aldon simply racked it up to six long weeks on the road, marketing the ACD. They had jumped between three different continents and nine countries, from subtropical to desert to temperate, and it just wasn't surprising for her to catch a late springtime cold. But after a week, he was starting to get worried.

"I'm sure it's just a flu, Aldon," Francesca said, with a heavy sigh. "I'll just… ask one of the house-elves to bring me tea and sleep it off."

"You've said that every day for a week." Aldon frowned, pulling out his wand. Not that he knew any Healing spells, they had always had among their friends a glut of Healers. "I'm asking Neal to come take a look at you."

"I don't want to worry him." Francesca waved a hand. "I don't feel that bad. I'm sure it's nothing, Aldon, don't worry about it."

"There's no harm in asking Neal to take a look," Aldon insisted, and Francesca didn't push him when he sent his Patronus to Queenscove. Both Rosier Place and Queenscove had opted to keep their Portkey Hubs; Neal simply trusted the Hub more than he did any Floo Network, and Aldon wasn't one to remove a functioning transit hub without good reason.

Neal didn't bother with a reply, coming over instead. Aldon met him at the Hub.

"Francesca's ill," he said brusquely. "A cold or flu, but it's lingered longer than it should have. Thank you for coming. How are Yuki and Sakura?"

" _De rien_." Neal shrugged. "Yuki and Sakura are fine—now that Sakura's started talking, she doesn't stop but I'm not sure she knows which language she's speaking at any given time. The English and French I've got, the Japanese not at all. Guess I'm lucky she has any French at all, really…"

Aldon smiled slightly. It had been three months since he and Francesca had had a chance to visit Queenscove, which he supposed was long in the lifetime of a child. "I'll speak French when I see her next—make sure she doesn't pick up that atrocious accent of yours."

Neal hit him on the shoulder but shot him a grin anyway.

"Neal!" Francesca struggled up to a sitting position. "You didn't have to come. It's just a cold or flu or something. I'll be fine, I just need to sleep it off."

"Aldon says you've been trying to sleep it off for a week already." Neal's crouched down to look at her. "There's no need to be stingy on Healing when you're surrounded by Healers, Francesca. A quick diagnostic, a few Potions, and you'll be up and ready to go tomorrow."

He pulled out his wand and twisted it in the usual diagnostic Charm, and then he frowned. "Huh."

"Huh?" Francesca leaned forward.

Neal hesitated. "Aldon, would you leave?"

Aldon placed his hands on the back of the sofa. "Why?"

"It's nothing, just—" Neal was awful at hiding anything—even without his gift picking up on the lie, Aldon would have seen it on his face. "It's just, uh, a bit sensitive. Healer-patient confidentiality."

Aldon raised an eyebrow. "As if that didn't already tell me that this isn't a matter of a minor cold or flu."

"Aldon can stay." Francesca waved a hand weakly. "I'd rather he be here than not, whatever it is."

Neal sighed, shaking his head. "On your head be it. Francesca, when was your last period?"

Francesca frowned deeper. "I don't really have a regular one. I have a contraceptive charm, and it hasn't really been a concern."

"Can I see it?"

Francesca fished out her necklace from her shirt, unclasping it and handing it over. It was still the tiny gold origami crane that Aldon had given her so many years ago.

Neal held it up, considering, and cast another spell. "The contraceptive charm on this has worn off. When did you last have it renewed?"

Francesca thought about it, and then she paled. "More than two years ago. Maybe—maybe two and a half. I forgot."

"Uh-huh." Neal's voice was dry. "And I assume, Aldon, that since Francesca was wearing a contraceptive charm, you didn't always worry about your own contraceptive charms."

Aldon swallowed, feeling very strange. "Not—not for many years."

Neal sighed. "I'm not an expert, but my guess is that you're about eight weeks along, Francesca. You'd need to see a Healer specializing in prenatal care for a more precise dating. It's early yet, so there's plenty of time if you want to carry the babe to term; if you're looking at termination, however—"

"Neal!" Aldon's voice was sharp. "You know termination remains illegal in Wizarding England."

Neal shot Aldon a glare. "And it isn't in Wizarding America, or Canada, or Ireland. There are options, and she has the independent means to access them. But only if you decide and act quickly—it becomes a lot more difficult to find a Healer willing to do a termination after twelve weeks, unless there's a compelling medical reason to abort."

Francesca's expression was far too pensive for Aldon's tastes, and he cleared his throat. "Is that everything, Neal? If so, I think we should be left alone to discuss. I'll show you out."

Neal sighed again, straightening. " _Ouais_ , that's everything. Francesca, if you need anything—and I do mean anything—feel free to come to Queenscove. I can show myself out, Aldon, no need to show me out."

"I'll do it anyway," Aldon said decisively, straightening himself and gesturing for Neal to go ahead of him to the Portkey Hub. He needed the walk to sort out his own thoughts—whatever other changes to his beliefs in the last ten years, he was still profoundly uncomfortable with the idea of having children out of wedlock. There was nothing he wanted more than to come back and tell Francesca to forget her feelings, she had no choice and they would be married within the next three months.

But that wouldn't work. He was sensible enough to know by now that that simply wouldn't work. Even without Neal's comment—the issue of abortion was one of the few that he and Neal butted heads on in the Wizengamot—he knew well that if Francesca needed help, she would find it. If not from Neal, from Archie and Hermione, or from John.

And none of his previous attempts had ever worked. No matter how romantic they were, how spontaneous they were, or how perfect he thought they were, Francesca had never accepted his proposals. Not even the one a week ago, when everything had seemed so right.

He wanted Francesca to marry him, but it was more important that he not push her away. And forcing the issue would only push her away.

"Thank you for coming, Neal," Aldon said abruptly, at the door to the Portkey Hub. Whatever their disagreements, Aldon had few friends and he preferred to keep the ones he had. "I appreciate it."

"It's no problem, really." Neal stepped into the Portkey Hub, then he paused. "Hey, Aldon—it's the twenty-first century, you know. A lot of people have children and raise them outside a formal marriage. Look at my brother Graeme, he never married Sophie, but they have a house and a son and he's not going to leave her. It's very common in Quebec. It'll work out, all right?"

Aldon smiled wryly. "As many changes as I've lived thus far, I would very much prefer the comfort and security and responsibility that comes with a recognized marriage. But that is not, as I am constantly reminded, a decision I can singlehandedly force."

Neal nodded and clapped him on the shoulder. "Well, let me know if there's anything you need from us. You're always welcome at Queenscove."

The door shut behind him, and a minute or so later, Aldon knew that Neal had gone.

Back in their rooms, Francesca was still pale, and she had wrapped a throw tightly around herself. Aldon sat down beside her, trying to find the right words to say, but it was Francesca that broke the silence.

"I thought you'd be pressuring me to marry you by now," she said, without looking at him. "I thought this would be a situation tailor-made for you tell me that I had no choice and we'd be married within the month."

"I considered it." Aldon reached over and tugged her into his arms, mollified somewhat but the fact that she allowed it. "Though a month is short. I would like a ceremony and reception appropriate for our status. But those proposals never worked anyway, and I'd rather—well. There are more important things than marriage. I want you to feel safe, Francesca, safe enough to stay here and to have this child. What can I do to help you feel safe?"

Francesca sniffled, but a watery smile crept over her face. "That. That was perfect, Aldon. Let's get married."

Aldon froze. He had no idea what made that question so different, not compared to a half-dozen proposals or a ten-year relationship or the thousand minor everyday gestures they exchanged. "Francesca—I didn't mean—" He coughed. "A week ago, you said that you didn't feel ready. Why the change?"

"I still don't feel ready." She rubbed her face in his shirt, which was a little damp from her tears. "But I don't—I don't think I need to feel ready. You'll be there. That's all."

"I see," Aldon replied, a warm feeling spreading through his chest. He wasn't sure that he understood, but if it worked for Francesca, then that was all he needed. "Then, my darling, let's get married."

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Lunar New Year and an early happy Valentine's Day!


End file.
